


Our Tim of the Flowers

by baranduin



Series: No Night Is Too Long [8]
Category: No Night is Too Long (2002)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:31:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schmoop, Ivo style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Tim of the Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fanfic100 community challenge #034--Not Enough.

I surprised Tim the night he paraded in front me with the gold chain swinging against his bare chest as though he was some Parisian tart and I his prospective customer. It wasn't the comment I made that surprised him, calling him our lady of the flowers. He liked that. He liked it very much, but then he always liked being abused a bit. His pretty eyes lit up, his alabaster-pale cheeks flushed a becoming coral (see how poetic I, the dry, dull, _scientific_ paleontologist can be?), he parted his red lips and licked them slowly. Oh, yes, how can I forget? His cock grew hard, swelling enough to stretch the worn denim so that I could see the plump outline of his balls and shaft.

He expected that I would take him very hard and fast, and I did not disappoint him in that. Certainly not. Plus, I wanted him that way. I can't get enough of him that way and never will though we live together for fifty years (and we will). But I also wanted something more (I have almost from the beginning), and that night I surprised him when I indulged my need for something a little less vigorous though equally physical.

"I'm sleepy," Tim murmured when I tugged the sheets back and pulled him to his feet.

He always looked so very innocent after sex (I won't call it love-making, I can't), sleepy, with his facial features sort of blurred with satisfaction. Of course self-satisfaction was a look that he often wore, it was his default expression, but there was usually no innocence in it. It was as if being fucked without tenderness brought out a particularly blameless brand of naïveté in him.

"Oh, please." I wouldn't let him refuse, and since it rarely took much effort to overcome any resistance, especially in the early days of our affair, he came with me. "Mustn't let my lady of the flowers go to bed all mussed up, now can I?"

"Shut up," he grumbled as I propelled him into the bathroom and then pressed gently on his shoulders until he was seated on the edge of the bathtub. "What are you doing?" He snickered. "Are you going to bathe me like my old nursemaid did ... that is, if I'd had one?"

I pressed my lips tightly together and said nothing, just nodded. You see, once he'd seen where he was and what was going to happen, I knew I'd surprised him and that pleased me, his tart words notwithstanding. And then it was his turn to surprise me. He did not say anything else while I began to prepare the bath, busying myself with turning on the water and adjusting the temperature to something beautifully warm but not so hot that it would sap our strength completely the way a too-hot bath does. That he stayed silent was unusual, given his propensity for prattle.

What he did that so surprised me was smile at me. He smiled at me with such a sweetness of affect that it flat out floored me. It was not that he had not given me a wide range of smiles and other expressions, but there was almost always such a studied quality to them, as if the gears in his mind were visible as he presented something that he felt was appropriate to the situation. He knew so little about how to behave naturally with human beings. So when he gave me such a guileless, happy smile that night, it truly stunned me.

I longed to tell him how I felt about him at that exact moment, but something held me back. It wasn't that I never planned to tell him, but it was too soon, much too soon for words of love even though I longed to express my feelings to him for by then I knew we would be together for the rest of our lives. However, he was a skittish thing sometimes and the danger of breaching that barrier prematurely was apparent to me, but that night I needed to express some of it. I simply had to. A bath is such a cliché activity for lovers to share, and yet it is a cliché because of its truthfulness.

We stayed in that bath until the water grew cold and we both began to shiver, even me. Tim was all soft compliance as he leaned against my chest, his face tilted up toward me for kisses, our legs tangled together in a slippery wet jumble. He did not speak much, but I did. I don't really know why, but I felt that I had to offset my tender physical actions with prickly words. I didn't want him to get too comfortable. He didn't seem to mind my running commentary.

"You should take that chain off, it'll tarnish."

"Mmmm ... it's gold. Alright." He lifted his head a bit and I slid the chain from around his neck, tossing it on the floor. I pushed him forward gently for I was suddenly mesmerized by the tender curve of the nape of his neck and the way his hair grew from it. I was overcome with a need to touch him there, with my fingers and lips and tongue, to nip him lightly (only lightly). So I pushed him forward. He made a small sound of protest but it died away once he felt my mouth brushing against his neck. It took all my strength to keep my touch light and tender, not to suck at him until his white skin turned purple.

The coolness of the air against our bare skin was what made me draw back, him clasped in my arms, until we sank beneath the steaming soft water again.

Tim turned his hips a little, angled them so that he was able to look up at me more easily. "You're strange tonight," he said, his eyes questioning and more than a little strange himself.

"Am I? Are you complaining, you little tart?"

"What happened to 'our lady of the flowers'?" He grinned.

"I was being more polite then."

"You? Polite to me?" His eyes fluttered shut coyly, but his mouth was still smiling, curving up in that artless way that was so deadly to me.

"I can be."

Before he was able to continue this light (and too rare) bantering, I closed his mouth with mine, and we kissed again for a very long time. We were breathless when we came up for air. And we literally had to come up for air because our heads slipped beneath the cooling water as our mouths stayed pressed together, barely moving, and it was enough.

It was enough, but only while our mouths were still touching. And then I wanted more.


End file.
